


Whirlwind

by rubyofkukundu



Series: Whirlwind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:45:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obligatory 'they meet as students' fic. It's the mid-90s! John meets Sherlock in a club. Sex ensues :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whirlwind

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/2416183.html>

The club is dark and hot and humid. Music blares, strobe lights flash, and girls in mini skirts and high-heeled shoes flutter past like a chorus of temptation.  
  
John is tired, drunk, and at 22, he's beginning to feel a bit too old for all this.  
  
The wall, when he leans back into it, is slick with perspiration. John would be disgusted if he weren't so glad to have something to hold him up.  
  
A voice says, "You're hardly that old, you know. Statistically."  
  
Startled, John turns his head to find himself confronted by someone. A boy. Tall and deep-voiced, maybe, but skinny and fresh-faced and _a boy_ all the same.  
  
"What?" asks John.  
  
"Your age," says the boy, "is not the cause. You're tired because you woke up at 7am this morning to catch the train." He gestures at the club around them with a nod of his head. "Having fun?"  
  
"Wait." John brings up a hand to rub his temples. "Who..." He shakes his head. "How did you even know that?"  
  
The boy smirks. "Do you really want to know?"  
  
"I..." John tries, but the words get lost in his confusion. He stands up and runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry, who are you?"  
  
The boy straightens and looks John in the eye. "I'm your fun for the evening."  
  
"Fun?" Heat flashes through John's face without him meaning for it to. "Look. I'm sorry, but I'm not that type of..."  
  
"You're intrigued, though, aren't you?" says the boy. "You're alone in a strange city because the friend you're staying with is busy getting off with a girl on the other side of the room. You're jealous, but it's hard for you to find a girl of your own when you don't know anyone else here. You'd make the first move, but you're too much of a gentleman to go after anyone who's too drunk to know what they're doing, which, at this time of night, most of the people here are." The boy grins at him. "Luckily for you, I'm completely sober."  
  
John looks at him, at the shirt that's fitted far too tight and the slim black trousers and the gleam of his eyes. He can't even believe he's contemplating this. "I'm not..." John starts.  
  
"Maybe not," agrees the boy, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, "but you've always wondered, haven't you? It would be interesting to try. Just once. In a city where no-one knows you. No repercussions."  
  
"But," John flounders, as a devilish part of his brain urges him that it is, definitely, an opportunity, "I don't know anything about you."  
  
"That's not true," says the boy. "You know plenty. Tell me."  
  
John groans. "I really am to drunk for this." He stands straighter and gives the boy the once over. "You're young," he says. "Must be in your first year. And you're..." He looks the boy in the eye. "You're not shy, that's for sure."  
  
The boy grins. "I'm intriguing and reasonably attractive and propositioning you quite openly. You're not as drunk as you think you are, have been mildly aroused for at least the last hour, and you're dying to discover how I know all this about you, John Watson."  
  
The name jolts through John like an electric shock. He jumps up, heart thudding in his chest, and watches as the boy drags up a coat from the floor and puts it on.  
  
"Come on," says the boy, already heading towards the door. "My college isn't far."  
  
John watches him go for a few terrible, indecisive seconds, and then, cursing himself for his own curiosity, follows in his wake.  
  
The cold night air, as John steps out into it, is a welcome relief from the heat of the club, but it seems like the boy doesn't think the same as he strides ahead, shoving his hands in his pockets.  
  
John hurries after him as fast as he can. "So," John has to pause for breath as he catches up, "how do you know who I am?"  
  
The boy flashes a smile in John's direction. "Sherlock Holmes," he says, turning a corner into a narrow side-street.  
  
"What?" John quickens his pace to try to get a better look at the boy's face. "What does that...?"  
  
"You seem like the sort of person who'd prefer to know someone's name in this kind of situation," states the boy. He turns around, walking backwards for a few paces as he grins down at John. "Sherlock Holmes," he says again. "Nice to meet you."  
  
"Er. Nice to meet you too. I think," says John, but Sherlock has already spun on his heel and turned down another side-street.  
  
John's just about to ask where they're going, when Sherlock stops abruptly and steps up to a large wooden door in the wall beside them. He pulls a set of keys from his pocket. "You should be more careful with your wallet, you know," says Sherlock, selecting a key and fitting it in the lock.  
  
"What?" asks John, as the door opens to reveal the dark quad of a college behind it and Sherlock steps through.  
  
"Your wallet," Sherlock repeats, turning to look John in the eye. "It's possible to see everything in it when you have it out at the bar." He smirks. "Student ID. Name: John Watson. Age: 22. Studying medicine at Queen Mary. Plus a used train ticket: London to Cambridge, stamped by the conductor with today's date. Conclusion: you're here visiting a friend, and you're only planning on staying for a couple of nights, otherwise you wouldn't have bothered to catch such an early train." He holds the door open. "Coming in?"  
  
"Wait," John feels as if he's just been assaulted with his own life-story and he can't quite keep up. "You said I caught an early train. How did you know that?"  
  
Sherlock sniffs nonchalantly. "Receipt sticking out of your back pocket," he says, "for items bought at WH Smith's, Kings Cross Station. Timestamp: 8:03am."  
  
"I..." John can't comprehend all that. The fact that someone would notice... He wants to say that he's just heard one of the most ridiculously astounding things in his life, but all that manages to come out is, "Wow."  
  
Sherlock looks at him, then frowns. "Wow?"  
  
"Yes!" says John. "That was... I mean. Seriously. Wow."  
  
Sherlock huffs a little. "Oh," he says, sounding a bit surprised.  
  
"Sorry," says John. "I didn't mean..."  
  
"No..." Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. "No, no. Don't worry about it." He looks at the door, seeming to remember that he's holding it open. "Are you going to come in, then?" he asks. "The porters won't like it, but they never do."  
  
If John was ever going to say no, it's not now. Not in the face of such an astonishing display. Was it a one-off, or... "Do you do that often?" asks John, as he steps through the door and watches as Sherlock shuts it behind them.  
  
"A reasonable amount." Sherlock waves a hand as he walks out into the quad. "Depends on how I'm feeling. But I'm experienced enough if that's what you're worrying about." He glances at John over his shoulder and pauses. "Oh. Wait. You were talking about the deductions."  
  
"Um, yes," admits John, his stomach somersaulting as it decides to remember why they're there. "But the other stuff... I mean. That's all good too."  
  
"Good," says Sherlock, walking up to a door in the corner of the quad. He unlocks this door too. "As for the deductions," he says. "Yes. Often. Well, most of the time, in fact." He walks inside and heads up a narrow wooden staircase.  
  
John tries to follow him as quietly as he can, ancient floorboards creaking under his feet. "Do you..." Sherlock's unlocking another door, halfway up the stairs. "Do you live in this place?" asks John, looking around himself. "Because... Wow."  
  
Sherlock turns to him. "You say that a lot, you know."  
  
"I..." John shakes his head. "Do I? Sorry."  
  
"There are quite a few rooms for undergraduates here," explains Sherlock. "It's not unusual." He opens the door and steps inside.  
  
John follows, to find himself in a scene of utmost chaos. The room he's entered is a fairly large study bedroom, or, at least, he thinks it is. There looks like there should be a desk and a bed in there somewhere, but they're covered in piles and piles of books and papers.  
  
Sherlock shuts the door behind John, then scoops an armful of books up from the bed and dumps them on the floor. "Excuse the mess," he says, almost as an afterthought.  
  
John is stunned into silence. He looks around himself. None of the books seem to make sense. They cover a vast array of topics, from biochemistry, physiology, anthropology, genetics, French, German... It almost looks as if Sherlock's stolen a whole library.  
  
"Jesus," says John. "What degree are you doing that needs all this?"  
  
Sherlock shrugs as he hangs up his coat and toes off his shoes. "Not sure," he says.  
  
"Not sure?" John has no idea what that means. "How can you not know what degree you're doing?"  
  
"Don't care enough to remember," says Sherlock. He frowns, thinking. "It might be chemistry," he says after a moment. "The exams I get given are in chemistry." He gestures at the bed. "Make yourself comfortable."  
  
"What?" John's not sure he's met anyone quite as confusing before. He takes off his shoes, then steps gingerly over a pile of scratchily-drawn graphs and mathematical equations on the floor and sits down on the bed. "Surely you know what lectures you go to?"  
  
Sherlock scoffs. "Lectures?" He wrinkles his nose. "Lectures are boring."  
  
"Right," says John, feeling more confused than ever.  
  
"So," says Sherlock, undoing the buttons of his shirt with quick, efficient movements. "How do you want to do this? There are condoms and lube in the bedside cabinet and..."  
  
"Oh," says John. Somehow, in all the oddity of their conversation, he had almost forgotten. Yes, they're here to... Sherlock's chest is pale as he tosses away his shirt. Skinny too; John can see ribs under the skin and it's... John is interested, of course, and he thinks he wants to do this but... God. He's not sure he...  
  
Sherlock huffs. "Stupid," he mutters. "Stupid. Of course. I'm not thinking." He waves a hand in John's direction. "It's your first time. Never had sex with a man before. Anxiety issues. Performance issues. Sexuality issues. Too much. Of course." He tuts. "Ignore what I just said. Ignore it."  
  
"I..." starts John.  
  
"We'll take this slowly," says Sherlock, climbing onto the bed and putting a hand on John's jaw. "I'm going to kiss you," he says. "Can I kiss you?"  
  
"Er." John is utterly overwhelmed. Sherlock is a whirlwind of a person, and John can't even breathe. Cat-like eyes stare at him. Pale skin. "Yes," says John. "Ok. Yes."  
  
Sherlock leans forward. His lips meet John's.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
The kiss starts chaste enough, soft pressure, but it's not long before Sherlock deepens it, his tongue pushing its way past John's lips and...  
  
It's not that much different to kissing a girl. Not really. Sherlock's good at this; really quite good. Long fingers slide down to John's neck and John breathes hard, dizzy from sensation.  
  
God.  
  
It's like kissing a girl, except that John runs a hand up to Sherlock's shoulder, feeling hard muscle under skin and he wants this. Likes this. Just like kissing a girl but it's not, and Sherlock's lips are hot and wet and John is far more aroused than he has any right to be.  
  
Sherlock pulls away, and it's a moment before John can open his eyes. He's pressed back; has been leaning heavily against the wall without even realising it.  
  
Those eyes stare at him again.  
  
John feels flushed from his head to his toes.  
  
"Not so hard, is it," says Sherlock, wearing a smug smile. "The next part," he says, leaning forward to press another kiss to John's lips, "is easy too."  
  
This time, when they kiss, spidery hands run down John's torso and slide up and under his T-shirt, fingertips cool against the the skin of his stomach.  
  
John inhales sharply at the touch.  
  
Just like a girl. Just like a girl, but Sherlock's fingers are long, long, long, brushing over John's waist and down to tug at the buttons on John's jeans. The kiss deepens and, God, Sherlock is a whirlwind, mind _and_ body, teeth scraping over lips in a way that John's going to feel for hours to come.  
  
Then there's the sound of John's fly being opened, slowly, slowly, and a hand comes down to cup him through his jeans, palm pressing steadily.  
  
The kiss breaks long enough for Sherlock to give another smug smile. "You're enjoying this," he declares.  
  
No point in denying it. John smiles back, breathlessly. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I am."  
  
The palm shifts and is replaced by fingers, tracing the contours of John's erection through the thick fabric. Sherlock watches him with sharp eyes as those fingers flatten out and press down, rubbing purposefully, almost as if he's waiting for...  
  
"God," says John, when he can't bear it any more. "God, yes. I need to get out of these," and he scrabbles onto his knees to push his jeans and underwear down as far as they'll go.  
  
Sherlock is on him in an instant, pushing John back against the wall, tugging his jeans down the rest of the way and curling those long, long hands around John's erection with a surety that makes John gasp as Sherlock kisses him again.  
  
This could be like a girl, but it's not. Because Sherlock's hands are on John and Sherlock's chest is beneath John's fingertips, lean and hard and wiry, muscles shifting under skin as Sherlock presses himself closer, crushing John between the wall and his mouth.  
  
John groans without meaning to. Sherlock's fingers are fast and deft and know _exactly_ what they're doing. The harsh noise of skin on skin fills the room and the hot pleasure of it twists forcefully through John's limbs, tensing tensing tensing.  
  
Then, suddenly, Sherlock stops and pulls back, leaving John gasping and bewildered. Sherlock flexes his wrist and leans across to the bedside cabinet.  
  
"Oh God." John lets his head thunk back against the wall, the cool plaster scratching at his scalp. "You..." He swallows, trying to catch his breath. "You're good at that, you know."  
  
Sherlock says nothing, but when John glances over, he can see the tiniest of smiles in the set of Sherlock's mouth. After rummaging in the bedside cabinet, Sherlock returns with a tube of lubricant. Without any ceremony, he squeezes a generous amount into his hand and warms it briskly between his palms.  
  
The noise of it is _obscene_. John's too much of a novice at this to know what Sherlock's planning to do but, at this moment, with his heart pounding and his cock heavy between his thighs, John's just about willing to go along with _anything_.  
  
Distantly, John realises how warm he feels, and he has just enough time to tug his T-shirt over his head, before Sherlock's back again, hands reaching down to curl around the length of John's erection once more.  
  
John's mouth opens and there's nothing to stop a ridiculous noise from coming out of it. Sherlock's fingers are sweetly slick, twisting confidently up the length of John's cock, hot and tight and, " _Jesus_." John pants and clutches at the bed-covers beneath him, trying to keep himself upright as his hips rock forwards of their own accord.  
  
Sherlock huffs a little, smiling that smug smile again, and increases the pace of his hands until the slick noise of it overpowers even John's breathing.  
  
God. _God_. John's received good handjobs before, but this... He tries to breathe, shoulders pushing against the wall as his back bows. "Oh, f..." The pleasure in his limbs screws even tighter, bunching up into a mild panic that this is going to be over far too soon when a finger reaches down to circle slickly over his perineum.  
  
"Oh God." John reaches out blindly, pushing Sherlock away by his shoulders. "Stop stop stop wait stop."  
  
Sherlock frowns, but does as he's told, sitting back on his knees. He looks at John for a moment, and says, "I've gone too far."  
  
John shakes his head, licking his lips as he tries to catch his breath. "No," he says, running a hand through his hair. His thighs are trembling. "Not too far."  
  
"Then," Sherlock frowns some more, "you..."  
  
John smiles breathlessly. "You've still got your trousers on," he says, by way of explanation.  
  
Sherlock's eyes flick down to his lap then back up. "You don't have to," he says. "I know you..."  
  
"No," says John again. He leans forward to tug at Sherlock's belt with shaky fingers. "I want to."  
  
Sherlock watches, seemingly frozen as John struggles to undo his fly. "Interesting."  
  
John looks up as he finally gets the thing undone. "What?"  
  
A smirk scuttles over Sherlock's face. "Nothing," he replies, and stands up to push down the rest of his clothes with the heels of his palms.  
  
Sherlock's legs are long, pale and thin, just like the rest of him, but between them... _Oh_. John's never seen somebody else's erection before, at least, not properly; not like this. Sherlock is obviously aroused, hard and flushed dark, and John can't breathe. His own cock aches at the sight of it. Sherlock barely gets one knee back on the bed before John's scrambling forward, one hand on Sherlock's hip and the other reaching out to cup Sherlock's erection in his palm.  
  
 _Jesus_.  
  
John groans without meaning to.  
  
This is _nothing_ like having sex with a girl. Sherlock is hot and solid and _good_ beneath John's hand, hardening further as John strokes upwards and, God, John's more turned on than he has been in a long time. He's almost astounded that it's taken him so many years to finally try this.  
  
Tentatively, John runs his thumb over the exposed head of Sherlock's cock, feeling the heat and the softness of it. There's a heavy inhale, and when John looks up, he finds that Sherlock's wearing that smirk again.  
  
John smiles in return, and squeezes his fingers in a way that makes Sherlock's smirk falter as his mouth falls open. Encouraged, John leans forwards to press a messy kiss to Sherlock's collarbone and says, "Where did you put the lube?" his own voice heavy and broken in his ears.  
  
Sherlock hums, and gestures vaguely at the bed, where John finds the tube, after a quick search, tucked between the folds of the bedclothes.  
  
Fumbling with the cap, John squeezes out far more than he probably needs and, when Sherlock holds out a hand, squeezes some more into his palm too.  
  
John's too far gone to be brisk and efficient about this the way Sherlock was before; he just about manages to coat both of his hands, but then Sherlock's crowding him back against the wall, a knee between John's thighs, and it's all John can do to reach down and clutch Sherlock's cock between slick fingers.  
  
Sherlock groans, a deep, guttural noise that John can almost _feel_ , and then kisses John again, lips and tongue and saliva slick.  
  
Oh. Oh.  
  
John tries to stroke Sherlock's cock as best he can, revelling in the heat and the hardness and the noise of his fingers working, but then Sherlock's hands run over Johns thighs to curl around John's erection once more and John can't think around the sudden surge of pleasure.  
  
Sherlock's fingers are masterful and quick and toe-curlingly _tight_ , and Sherlock's mouth is hot and wonderful, breaking the kiss to breathe heavily into John's hair. It's almost too much. John was already close, but now he's even closer, with the feel of Sherlock's cock, hard and heavy and unequivocally _male_ in his hands, the thought of it so tantalising that it's almost unbearable.  
  
John gasps, desperate. He runs his fingers more quickly, sliding slickly over warm skin and feels Sherlock press closer, his throat working beside John's lips.  
  
God. God. God.  
  
It _is_ too much. Fingers tighten. Teeth graze a pale collarbone. Muscles clench. And suddenly John is coming, his limbs shaking, the world tilting, and Sherlock's cock insistent and beautiful beneath his hands.  
  
There's a long moment before John can right himself again. Sherlock strokes him through to the end of his orgasm, until Sherlock's fingers and John's thighs are messy, glistening, and John slumps back against the wall, exhausted and euphoric.  
  
Then, Sherlock sits back.  
  
John opens his eyes just as Sherlock's gaze flicks away.  
  
Brushing the hair out of his eyes with a forearm, Sherlock straightens and goes to get up, but John doesn't want this to end yet, because Sherlock is still ridiculously hard, his cock shining in the lights, and John can't bear to part with it.  
  
"Wait." John scrabbles to sit up and lunges forward to hook one arm around Sherlock's waist, pulling him back down, and using the other hand to curl around Sherlock's erection.  
  
Sherlock trembles, but goes with the movement, leaning an arm against the wall for support, his body pushing into John's, lips landing on John's ear.  
  
John swears. He doesn't mean to, but he can't help it. His arousal lingers in him limbs, warm and pleasant, and it's not helped by the way Sherlock's hips are rocking, the way Sherlock feels, the smell of sex in the air.  
  
Jesus. John's not normally like this; feeling almost as if he could come again, despite the fact that it's far too soon.  
  
Sherlock's cock is dark and straining, a world of temptation in John's fist, and John tries to make it as good as he can, fingers twisting and tugging, attempting to remember how he likes to be touched himself and mapping it onto Sherlock's skin.  
  
It doesn't take long. Sherlock's breathing has become a panting, ragged thing, interspersed with the tiniest of whimpers and gulps for air. His hips rock faster, cock pushing slickly through John's hands, hot and urgent beneath John's fingers.  
  
Then there's an exhalation, a surprised, "Ah," followed by hitching breaths, and suddenly Sherlock's shooting onto John's stomach in hot, wet lines.  
  
Three more strokes is all that's needed for the tension to seep out of Sherlock's frame, and he slumps forward against the wall, face pressed into John's hair.  
  
For a moment, they just sit there and breathe, as John tries to process what they've just done.  
  
Wow.  
  
Sherlock huffs, a short and pleased sound, then he heaves himself back and sits upright. Those cat-like eyes meet John's and Sherlock's lips quirk in a smile.  
  
John smiles too.  
  
Then Sherlock stands, lurches a little, and grabs a towel from the floor, which he uses to clean himself up. He tosses it to John afterwards, and flops down onto the bed, stretching out onto his back and squirming a little until John pulls his legs out of the way.  
  
Once he's settled, Sherlock hums and says, "Good?"  
  
" _Yes_ ," says John, with feeling, as he wipes himself down. "Yes. It was... Well, you were..." He grins, words eluding him. "Amazing."  
  
Sherlock's lips curl into a smug smile, and he reaches out to pluck a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the bedside cabinet. Eyes closed, Sherlock lights one and inhales deeply, chest rising and his expression relaxing into bliss.  
  
After a few seconds, he waves the packet in John's direction. "Want one?" he asks without looking up.  
  
"Er, no, thanks." John waves a hand. "I don't smoke."  
  
Sherlock opens an eye. "Shame," he says, taking another drag. "You don't know what you're missing."  
  
John smiles. "I'm fine without. Really." He surveys the room for his clothes, which seem to have tangled themselves amongst the papers on the floor. "I suppose I should go."  
  
Sherlock looks at him. "Are you sure?" he asks. "You don't want to stay for more? When it comes to your bisexuality, we've only just scratched the surface."  
  
John laughs a little in disbelief because, once again, he's got the feeling that this boy is able to read more into him than any person should rightly be able to. For a reckless moment, just to see what Sherlock could tell him, John's tempted to stay. But he knows that he can't; he's here to visit his friend, and he can't just wander off from the club and not return.  
  
"You're right," says Sherlock, dropping his head back to the pillow with a sigh, even though John's not said anything, "fifteen more minutes and your friend is finally going to notice that you're gone." He waves a hand. "You should go back."  
  
"Right," says John, trying to ignore a confusing tug of disappointment in his chest. He gets up and begins to locate his clothes.  
  
Sherlock says nothing while John dresses, just lies back and smokes, eyes closed once more.  
  
When John's done, he looks around himself, at the crazy mess of the room. He's always bad at this part of the evening. "Well." He coughs. "I suppose I should..."  
  
"The doors aren't locked from the inside," says Sherlock absently. "You can let yourself out."  
  
"Right." John looks at Sherlock, waiting for a further response. He doesn't get one. John sighs and raises a hand. "Bye, then."  
  
Sherlock doesn't even open his eyes. "Goodbye."  
  
The walk back from Sherlock's college to the club is colder than John remembers it being before, and the club, when John re-enters, seems uncomfortably loud and stiflingly full of people.  
  
"There you are!" says John's friend when he sees him. "I wondered where you'd gone."  
  
"Nowhere." John gives him a tight smile. "Just went to get some air, is all."  
  
It's not long before they stumble their way back to John's friend's place. Once there, they both go straight to bed because John's friend is too drunk to stay awake much longer and John finds that he doesn't really feel like talking anyway.  
  
The next couple of days are spent catching up and sight-seeing. It's fun, but John isn't as good a guest as he'd like to be. No matter what happens, he can't help his mind from lingering on _that_ evening. It's understandable really; John's perception of himself has shifted 90 degrees and there's a lot to think about. But still...  
  
John wonders what Sherlock is doing; if he's busy not-studying for the degree course that he doesn't remember the name of, or if he's off telling other people the stories of their lives.  
  
If he's having a one-night stand with somebody else.  
  
Without even thinking about it, John finds himself looking out for Sherlock's tall, skinny silhouette wherever they go. Cambridge isn't a big city; theoretically, they could bump into him anywhere. Not that John's looking for anything more, of course, but he finds himself imagining what it would be like to meet that mad whirlwind of a person one more time. Just one last glimpse.  
  
John almost considers asking his friend to take him to see Sherlock's college, but, as comfortable as John feels with his new-found sexuality, it's not really a subject of conversation that he feels ready to broach just yet.  
  
The days pass.  
  
They don't see Sherlock once.  
  
Eventually, it's time for John to go. Wearily, he lugs his stuff off to the train station, settles in for the journey home, and tries not to feel like he's just about to lose something important.  
  
It's late in the evening when John finally reaches his flat. He's tired and hungry and it looks like his flatmates have all gone to bed. Cambridge already feels like a far-distant memory.  
  
With a sigh, John drops his keys and his bag and heads to his room. He's just opening the door, when his foot catches on something on the floor.  
  
A postcard.  
  
One of his flatmates must have slipped it under the door. Crouching, John picks it up.  
  
It's from Cambridge, which is odd to say the least.  
  
With a frown, John turns it over. There's no message. Only a scrawled phone number and a set of initials: _SH_.  
  
John grins like a lunatic.


End file.
